Sydney takes a step back and slaps the wooden brush against the palm of her hand. She's switched out her pink bikini for a black tank and some skinny jeans, a pair of red suede boots and an armful of those rubber bracelets everyone's always picking up at the concerts. Most of my shit's missing – all I've got right now is a single duffel bag, one that I took to the concert with me. It had exactly two of my comfiest dresses in it, a pair of jeans, a few pairs of panties, and a bra. Ronnie asked Milo about the clothing situation and some chick, some 'personal shopper' or whatever the fuck you want to call 'er, brought back a couple of bags of stuff for me. Surprisingly, the clothes were dead on with my style, but they still don't feel right. Oh, you know, like I've got a fucking bullet wound on my belly, so my usual look doesn't really work right now. I settled for wearing a new leather jacket and one of the many, many band T-shirts that float around us like clouds. Swear to Christ, I could reach around blind in anybody's bag with my eyes closed and come up with another of the bloody things. Today's tee is navy blue with Terre Haute's logo on the front.
“If Naomi never wakes up … I imagine Turner will transform into some fucked up clone of Ronnie.” Sydney cringes and glances quickly over her shoulder at me. I focus on her orange octopus tattoo instead of her eyes. I know the pain Ronnie went through, or at least a fraction of it. I can feel Poppet's loss like a knife through the heart, twisting in my chest with every breath. I just force myself not to think about it. My fingers twitch and unconsciously, I find myself reaching for my jacket pocket, digging in and feeling a wash of disappointment when I don't come in contact with one of the little plastic vodka bottles I'm so used to carrying around. “I mean, old Ronnie, of course. You have no idea the change you've made in him.”
Sydney turns back to Naomi and lays a hand across her forehead.
“But she'll wake up. I know she will. I can feel it.”
I nod, but I don't say anything. Sydney told me on the way over here, in the back of one of those swanky security vans, that she felt like an outsider. Only, she's not the real outsider here. I am. Sydney's known these boys all their lives; I've only just met them. I'm hanging onto this group by a thin thread, wrapped around Ronnie's pinky finger and liable to snap at any moment. Don't think about the marriage thing, I tell myself. And then of course, I do. Shit. Ronnie didn't drop to his knees or anything, but he definitely suggested it. The thought's one part terrifying, two parts exhilarating. I'm not sure what to think about that.
“Ready to pay Blair a visit?” she asks and I shrug. I don't know the girl, but if there's a chance Dax could be there, I should go for Sydney's sake. Hey, who wouldn't jump at another chance to have guilt rammed down their throat like a dry dildo? Here's to the show of hands. Sydney slides her fingers across Naomi's forehead and turns toward the door, moving past the security guard with us like he's not even there. She insisted we didn't need one, but I'm starting to learn that when Milo Terrabotti wants something, he can be fairly convincing.
“When's your photo shoot?” I ask, thinking of Tattoo Terror, the website Cohen used to beat off to. He'd leer at me whenever I walked in on him, dick in hand, and flash me the screen. I have to use these bitches to get off because you're not good enough. I shiver and cut off that train of thought. Last thing I need today is a trip down memory lane, one that only leads to an impossible puzzle where I try to figure out how Cohen changed from a sweetheart to an asshole in an instant.
“It was going to be in a few days,” Sydney whispers, her voice cracking as we move down the hall, fluorescent lighting cutting into my eyeballs and giving me a migraine. She seems to know where she's going, so I keep pace and ignore the stretching and tugging of the skin around my wound. It seems to be healing up nicely, but I can feel it with every step I take. “But, after all the publicity surrounding the concert and whatnot, I got a call that the shoot's been temporarily canceled.” I wrinkle my brows.
“Canceled? Bloody fuck. What the hell does that mean?” Sydney keeps her gaze straight ahead and doesn't look at me.
“I don't know. You'd think me being the sister of Indecency's lead guitarist would help with their subscribers, boost advertising revenue, I don't know, something. But my guess? They just don't want any of that poison around their magazine.” Sydney sighs and runs a hand through her perfect blonde hair. Her bangs are cut so sharp, framing her eyes with a perfectly straight line of white blonde. It gives her an edgy look that I'm sure would bring douche bags like Cohen swarming to the company's website.
“Well, I'll be stuffed,” I snort, shaking my head. “The rotten reaching arm of this shit extends to all facets of life, doesn't it? I wonder if America and Stephen knew that would happen when they started their war, or if they even cared.”
“What I want to know is who did what exactly. Everything that happened – Ronnie's kids being dumped with their mothers' bodies, Dax's mom being shipped in the back of a van to the hotel, the sniper that got Trey – how much of that was Stephen and how much was America?” Sydney looks over at me, her eyes like the waters that drown The Great Barrier Reef. Bright, open, honest. Fuck those fuckers at Tattoo Terror; they're missing out. “I mean, how much do you know exactly?” she asks, and I cringe.
“Not a whole lot to be honest with you. Everybody in Ice and Glass had their targets and that was that. I was supposed to make Ronnie fall in love with me or some stupid shit like that, traumatize the poor fuck and take him down so deep he'd never climb out. There were bets in the band on whether I could get him to commit suicide or not.” I feel my heart twist in my chest. When Stephen lured us in, it was with vague hints that we'd have to pay a price for his patronage, that he'd make us stars, that our music would be immortalized. When he started giving us tasks, I thought they were weird, but manageable. Send a doll head to Naomi Knox, a baseball cap to Indecency's bus. Sneak this guy, this Eric Rhineback, behind the scenes. I could do all that. When things first started to take a turn for the worse, I didn't know what to do and neither did anybody else. When it came time to put on those masks, storm that bus … we just did as we were told. My stomach flip flops and I cover my mouth with my hand.
“Sorry,” Sydney says as she pauses outside of a hospital room door. Instead of a police officer, there's one of Brayden's guards standing outside the room, just like at Naomi's. I didn't even bother to ask the guy what his fucking deal was. What's the point? Obviously Brayden's not quite done with us yet. I guess he's got to stick around and make sure Naomi and Blair get their stories straight. “I didn't mean to bring it up.” Sydney takes a deep breath and gives me a tight-lipped smile before knocking on the door. The guard pays us no attention.
A moment later, the door opens and Dax appears, face full of stubble, dark hair greasy and unwashed, lips downturned at the corners. When he sees us standing there, he sighs like he's relieved and leans against the door like he can barely carry his own body weight.
“Hey,” he whispers and I watch as Sydney visibly holds herself back. She wants to touch him, to put her arms around his neck and tell him that everything's going to be okay. Instead, she twists her hands together, the full sleeves of her tattoos a colorful swirl of nervousness.
“How is she?” Sydney asks, peering around Dax's shoulder at the comatose form on the bed. He takes a step back and ushers us inside before closing the door behind us. There's a chair sitting next to the bed, covered with a rumpled blanket and a white pillow. On the table next to it, there's a vase of flowers and a tray of untouched food. The entire room reeks of despair and misery. Poor fucker.
“Not much better,” he grumbles, sinking into the chair and straightening the wrinkled purple T-shirt he's wearing. “She was shot twice in the chest.” Dax makes a gun with his hand and points it at his pecs, pretending to pull the trigger. “Each bullet managed to find a lung, so Blair was basically suffocating while we waited for an ambulance.” He stares at his friend for a long moment and then looks away. Sydney and I both take a step closer to the bed and look down at the
keyboardist's expression. I know she's a beautiful girl, but right now, she's got a face like a dropped pie. It's all squinched up and pale, her lips bloodless, her hair tangled and ratty.
Sydney doesn't say anything, just exchanges a glance with me over her body and then starts to comb the black and blonde hair into place. This could be a sign that Naomi might come out of her coma soon. If she looks that good and poor Blair here looks that bad … I glance up at Dax as he continues to talk.
“Her mom told me the doctor said there's a good chance she'll have permanent brain damage.” He swallows and tucks his legs up on the chair, wrapping his arms around them and resting his chin on his knees. Dax McCann is not in a good place right now. “Her family's been staying here ever since they flew in, but I made 'em take a break. They went back to the hotel to rest for a little while.” He sighs and lets his gray eyes close enough that I can read the words on the back of the lids. Born Wrong.
“I'm so sorry,” I say, but he doesn't open his eyes or look at me. Maybe he blames me for this, maybe not, but that room suddenly feels so small and stifling that I feel like I've got to get out of there. The walls start to close in and my breath comes in shallow bursts. As if it can sense my anxiety, my bullet wound begins to throb. “I'm going to … take an early mark,” I say and get a funny look from Sydney. Whether that's because of my slang or because I'm acting like a cracked out lunatic, I'm not sure. I can feel little beads of sweat dripping down my forehead as I back away and turn towards the door. “I'll be in the hallway if you need me.” I step out and close it behind me, still panting, drawing a strange look from the guard to my right. Fuck him.
I stumble down the hall a bit and collapse into a row of blue plastic chairs. The leopard print ballet flats on my feet look garish against the white glimmer of the linoleum floor. I close my eyes and let my fingers curl around the seat of the chair while I struggle against the rush of emotions that I know I can't keep pushing back forever.
Blair's just another innocent bystander in a war that had nothing to do with me, with her, with Ronnie. I shouldn't ever have gotten involved. Just being around Dax for an instant, feeling his pain, thinking about Hayden and Katie and all the other people who lost their lives because of it, makes me feel like I deserved to lose Poppet. Maybe that was my punishment for all the things I was involved in, all of the crap I let slide.
I feel tears threatening to push out from under my eyelids, and I fight them back with everything I've got. I won't sit here and do this, not right now. I open my eyes again and stare at a pair of stainless steel water fountains across the hall from me. Nurses and doctors stream past and nobody pays me any attention until Dina, the bitch nurse from hell walks by. As soon as she catches sight of me, she pauses.
“Miss Saints.” Her voice scrapes across my raw nerves like a cheese grater over cheddar. I wrinkle my mouth and raise my gaze up to meet hers. “How are you feeling?” She pauses in front of me, red hair slicked back on her head like a ballet dancer. There's a bun sitting on top of her skull, dead center, a red lump that gives the woman a strong resemblance to one of those creepy cartoon characters in How the Grinch Stole Christmas!.
I shrug and Dina's already frowning mouth seems to sink deeper into her face.
“Don't forget your follow up visits,” she reminds me, but I'm sure I probably will anyway. I lean back and rest my arms on the backs of the chairs on either side of me. We continue to stare at one another until I get so miffed at having my personal space invaded that I decide to see if I can piss her off, just to get her to go away.
“Nick off, you rat bag,” I mumble as she digs her feet in and seems determined to bother me. Her green gaze seems familiar somehow, or maybe I'm just imagining that, comparing the mossy color of her eyes to my memory of Brayden Ryker's. Weird ass motherfucker. I still don't get how he plays into all of this. Since he seems to suck some serious dick when it comes to actually providing security for the people he's supposed to be protecting, there must be some other angle he's playing, something I'm not getting. The fact that I'm just as far away from the truth now as I was on the night of the concert bugs me.
“Pushing me away won't do you any good. I'm only trying to help.” I roll my eyes, but nothing can make me forget the way she jabbed needles into my arm, with that extra special little bit of unnecessary force. “Just because you're hurting on the inside doesn't mean you need to project that pain onto others. It's not fair, and it's not acceptable. Rudeness should never be tolerated from anyone.” She pauses here. “Not even from a 'rock star'.” The little quotes she makes with her fingers give me a raging headache.
“Pull ya head in. You don't know what you're talking about. Piss off, mate.” I let my eyes drift down the hall, towards Blair's door. There's no sign of Sydney or Dax yet, so I turn my attention back to Dina. If she thinks she can bully me out of here, she's dead wrong. I can be a real stubborn bitch when needed.
“Well, I just thought you should know that your boyfriend's downstairs and on his way up.” I raise my right eyebrow.
“Ronnie?”
“No,” Dina says with an annoying half-smile. “Cohen Rose. As soon as you checked in as a visitor, I let him know you were here. I'm sure he'll be thrilled to see you.” My blood chills as Nurse Dina moves away with a squeak of white sneakers against the polished linoleum. My nostrils flare and the scent of iodine becomes so overwhelming that I almost puke, right there on the perfectly perfect hospital floor. My head spins and I lean over, struggling to take in a deep breath.
“Hey there, Lola.” I hear Cohen's voice before I see him, keeping my gaze focused on my feet until I feel like I can look up without getting sick. Several pairs of footsteps approach, and I raise my chin to look over at Cohen, standing shakily next to me with a pale face and disheveled hair. Looking at him now, I find it hard to believe I ever let him get the best of me. As soon as he started beating me, I should've knocked his ass out. Only I didn't. Just like with my bitch of a mum, I let him hit me and I didn't do a damn thing about it, not for a long, long time. I guess even before I was a murderer and a traitor, I felt like I deserved to be punished.
I spare a quick glance for the men on either side of Cohen. Brown hair, plain faces, muscular chests. Brayden Ryker's men. Again. Hmm.
“What do you want, Cohen?” I ask, enjoying the twinge of venom in my words. At least I can still manage that. His shit brown eyes bore into me as he shifts and adjusts his right arm, trapped in a sling by his side. If that was my doing, I'm not sure. When I took that second shot at Cohen, I have no idea if I even hit gold. I hope so. I try to take pleasure in that. “Don't you have a plane to catch back to Arkansas or something? There must be a trailer park out there with your name written all over it.”
“Listen to me, you little bitch,” he growls and then pauses when Brayden's men shift next to him. This whole operation here stinks of subterfuge and underground politics. I don't like it. Scares the shit out of me. Blackness creeps in at the edges of my vision, and I start to wonder if our whole it's all over now motto might be a little premature. It doesn't feel over. No, the shit storm still seems to be raging, even if all the diarrhea is falling behind the scenes. “Listen to me, Lola. Whatever you think, whatever that Ronnie guy's made you believe, it's all a load of bullshit. This isn't over, so don't go riding off into the sunset just yet. I was promised my piece, and it hasn't been delivered. Joel is … ” Another uncomfortable shift from Brayden's men. “Dead. Honesty and Chris are damn close to it. We were promised fame. And money. I don't see any of that shit happening.”
“Oh, get stuffed, Cohen. I don't have time to sit here and listen to your maniacal cackling.” I shake my head and force my hands to sit still in my lap. I won't give this asshole the pleasure of seeing me squirm. His crap brown eyes are searching right now, gleefully seeking weakness to feed off of. That's his thing, you know. He's an insecure man looking for more, more, more. It's bloody terrifying. “I don't know why you're not sitting in jail somewhere. Hell
, I don't know why I'm not sitting in jail somewhere.” I feel Brayden's guards looking very closely at me, so I keep it vague. “But what I do know is that it looks like I'm going to get a second chance. Sorry to burst your bubble, but if I can walk away from all of this and take it, I damn well will. Make your own destiny, Cohen, and stop relying on others to do it for you.” I smile and it feels like the expression is eating away at my face. “Your dick's not big enough to entice anyone to stay for the sex and you've got a few roos loose in the top paddock. If I could pass on any advice at this point, it would be to stop beating your girlfriends and act like a gentleman for a change.”
Cohen's hands curl into fists by his sides and his nostrils flare, but he doesn't take another step towards me. Instead he scrubs a hand through his dirty blonde hair and scowls.
“You can't be redeemed. You know that, right? A bitch that's done all the things you've done? Whatever fantasyland you're living in, you might want to dig yourself out and take a look around you. Just because Stephen's dead doesn't mean you're free to do as you please.” Cohen licks his lips and opens his mouth for a second tirade when something he sees behind me stops him in his tracks.
“Do I need to take my fucking shirt off again, Cohen?” Ronnie asks as I sit up suddenly and whip my head around to stare at him through fluttering strands of brunette that settle gently around my face as I stare at the best damn drummer that ever walked this earth. My mouth gets dry and my heartbeat picks up at the sight of him cracking his knuckles and frowning at my ex. Turner stands on his left, a smirk curling up the corners of his lips. The fluorescent lights make the piercing in his tongue gleam when he opens his mouth to speak.
“I hear last time this motherfucker went after you, you pissed yourself. Too bad I wasn't around to see it. Why don't you keep messing with his woman and let's see how far he lets you go before he smashes your face in.” Considering Cohen's still sporting some of the bruises that Ronnie left on his face in Wichita, I'm surprised he's got the balls to actually open his fat ass mouth again.
Doll Face Page 12
